a hair's breadth

NOITCERRU All souls know what is good for them. There was a calling in all of them, down below as well as above. The height of the hooves did not matter, only the willingness to follow in the meandering path of the wanderer. All Noitcerru knew was his own - the moments of epiphany amongst the carousel of places he had already been, the pause amid a hundred reasons to travel onwards elsewhere, the long curling smile snipping away at his mouth that wasn’t entirely under his control as familiar memories of dim and distant places, a kaleidoscope of colour and noise and light, converged into one space under one label: home. Or home for a moment, a minute, an hour, a day. He would decide later - that, in itself, wasn’t important. He hovered above ground with steady, pulsing beats and took in the sight before him. This part of the Rift is new to him - or was it? Ghosts of what he had once seen lingered before the birdman; he shook his head, attempting to free himself of past journeys. Perhaps this place had the spark of familiarity because of its similarity to other places - the wild, the wicked, but never the dismal. Because when he saw the Summit, it was with the rush of relief for space, for expanse, for a great turret for him to climb - regardless of whether he had seen this place before. Even through the screen of rain, that torrent of a downpour, the great mount rose ahead of him promising freedom and security, somewhere free of the restrictive branches overhead and the tangled, creeping vegetation that could trap him like a snare - that which only grew more catching and knotting with the new life of the Rift, with the new presences leaping into life. There was the wash of pine trees down the flanks of the mountain but at least there was a mountain there unto itself, a rising peak, an exclaimation mark amongst nothing but the passage of sea and beach and forest and wood. The Rift was shifting, and this mountain could be gone in less than a day if that was what the presences wanted. Noitcerru snorted, a sharp exhale. His decaying homeland had suddenly accelerated; even the winds were different, more unruly than usual. It did not occur to him to answer why, only how; how to survive in a shifting world of a thousand landscapes. The answer was that there was no time to waste. The birdman circled the lake - first and then the second time. His wings were languid, gliding on the wider winds this open space had to offer as he surveiled the land below. Quick brown eyes hopped feverishly from each feature, one after the other after the other. Threats and sights of other horses - the other other horses, the Helovians, those strange new beasts in a class of their own - were nonexistent. But that wasn’t all he was looking for, the predatory look in his eyes not yet sated. Angles, corners, gradients and slants came to light to him like physical objects, invisible signposts for the winged kind like him.   A decision. And then, in a steep dive, he descended upon the lake. The rolling, pitching descent made his lips strain back towards his teeth, his inward ears flattened tightly against his skull with the dizzy euphoria of flight - and with sheer glee a free-spirited whinny-like call came tumbling from his jaws, loud and piercing and shredding into the alpine air. The water was getting closer and closer, dizzily enveloping his vision in a panorama of the deepest blues and purples and greens. And, too, the ripples in the deep, the shifting of light beneath the surface; the knowledge that he was not alone, that the lake was thriving with life of its own. But he kept going, and going, and going, as the wind slicked his feathered body and rain threatened to slow his descent - His wings tilted then, a minute change in a practised move adapted for his shortcomings. He equaled into a level strip across the mirror-like surface, painting a perfect reflection above and below as he reached forward, angling downwards for his whiskery lips to brush the cool water. Sweetness enveloped his tongue and washed down his dry throat, saving his gullet from the cutting winds. He coursed down the length of the lake swiftly to avoid awakening the sirens, gulping down water as he went, limp legs flecked with spray. "Talk." @Erthë run boy run this world is not made for you

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